


Whatever Raises Another Man's Flag

by notkingyet



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Drunk Blow Jobs, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, post season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Best's move came at that magical point in the evening when Jackson was drunk enough to make bad decisions, but not too drunk to follow through on them. Because of this, when Best slipped away from the bar and out the back door into the alley behind the pub, Jackson followed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Raises Another Man's Flag

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [harkerling](http://harkerling.tumblr.com) for beta-reading.

    "Captain Jackson."

    Of all the voices Jackson had expected to hear that night, Fred Best's was not one of them. And of all the voices Jackson had wanted to hear that night, he thought Best's might be the least welcome.

    "Get gone, Best," Jackson droned in reply, punctuating it with a swig of beer.

    Best ignored this imperative and sat down on the empty barstool beside Jackson. The pub was full and lively tonight; for that seat to have remained empty so long spoke to what poor company Jackson's fellow patrons knew him to be.

    "Just a quick word," said Best. "A comment or two on the near-murder of Inspector Shine at the hands of a fellow policeman."

    "Wasn't there," said Jackson. He took his now-empty bottle by the neck and gave it a few experimental taps against the bar. Some folk might have taken that as a warning. Best didn't.

    "Ah, but you are acquainted with the involved parties, are you not?" said Best, leaning in. "Working with them still?"

    Jackson said nothing. He tried not to notice the warmth that radiated from Best, that human warmth he hadn't known since Susan had shut him out.

    It wasn't as though he lived alone without her. He was still shacking up with Reid. But Reid likely wouldn't be amicable to Jackson's lonely advances. Reid wasn't much company these days, hadn't been for a while. And even when he had been, when their partnership was as shiny and new as the deadroom Reid had built for him, Jackson knew better than to suggest anything cozier. Of course, he'd had Susan then, too. Those days were long gone. And now, here was Best, the first person in months to talk to Jackson about something other than corpses.

    Jackson shook his head. It didn't shake away the smell of Best's cologne––subtle yet distinct, a light musk. Best was far too close. Jackson shifted uneasily on his barstool.

    "Anything to say as to the character of Inspector Reid or Sergeant Drake?" said Best, his knee pressing into Jackson's thigh.

    "Not a damned thing," said Jackson, hoping the sound of his own voice would distract him from the sensation of another body so nearby. It didn't work.

    Best sighed. "As you will, then." He stood. Jackson fought the instinct to stand with him, to follow that retreating warmth. "Should you change your mind, you know where to find me."

    With those words, Best was gone. Any hope Jackson had of human companionship went with him.

    Best's move came at that magical point in the evening when Jackson was drunk enough to make bad decisions, but not too drunk to follow through on them. Because of this, when Best slipped away from the bar and out the back door into the alley behind the pub, Jackson followed.

    The alley was dark, cramped, and empty except for the long shadow of the retreating reporter. He'd almost made it to the street by the time Jackson had stumbled outside to lean against the filthy paper-covered wall of the alley and call his name. Best turned, looked shocked for a moment, then that familiar oily grin stole over his face and he swaggered back over to Jackson.

    "Yes, Captain?" he said.

    Jackson's throat was dry. He swallowed.

    "Changed my mind," he said.

    Best's smug smile widened.

    "You'll talk?" said Best. "On record?"

    "Oh, I'll do better than that," said Jackson, and leaned in.

    He managed a peck on Best's lips, which were half-parted in shock, before Best shoved him off. Jackson staggered back a step and laughed. Best spluttered indignantly, casting about the alley for his hat, which had been misplaced by his violent repulsion of Jackson's attentions. By the time he'd retrieved it, Jackson's laughter had subsided into occasional snickering.

    Best's cheeks were red with repressed rage. He let loose a bit of it in a sharp reproval:

   "What the hell do you think you're––"

    "Ah, come off it, newsie," said Jackson, letting the alcohol exaggerate his natural drawl. "Don't act like I ain't your type. You and I both know better."

    Best opened his mouth like he might try anyway, caught whatever words he was about to say, and reshaped them into an expression of incredulity.

    "How drunk _are_ you?"

    "Drunk enough not to remember this in the morning, if you'd prefer I didn't." Jackson grinned, acting happier about it than he felt.

    Best made a tch sound. "Yes, well, unhappily for you––" He tugged on his own lapels, smoothed them down, and rearranged his hat. "––I'm not so desperate as to take you up on that offer."

    "Aren't you?" said Jackson.

    Best glared at him in silence, then turned and strode purposefully away.

    In his absence, the hollow feeling Jackson had tried to drink away crept back in. He couldn't bear to be left to himself, not now. Even Best would be better company than his own sad self.

    "Where're you going?" he said, slurring to keep the desperation out of his voice. "What, you scared of an ol' drunk Yankee?"

    Best's steps slowed a little at that, coming to a pause, though his back remained to Jackson. It was enough; Jackson had Best's remaining ear, metaphorically speaking.

    "Go ahead, keep runnin'!" he called. He waved Best on, though Best hadn't turned around to see it. "That's what you're good at, ain't it?"

    He had no idea whether or not running was, in fact, Best's forté. At this point, he was hollerin' for the sake of hollerin'. But unwitting as it was, the taunt was well-aimed––Best spun on his heel and began a fury-fueled march back to where Jackson stood leaning with one arm against the soot-coated brick wall.

    As Best approached, Jackson had time to elaborate on his point.

    "Yellow-bellied son of a––"

    "What the devil do you know about it?" Best hissed once he'd gotten close enough.

    "Truth told?" said Jackson with a shrug full of feigned laziness. "Not much. Don't s'pose you'd be willin' t'provide me with an education?"

    "As if you needed it," said Best. "A runner, am I? High praise coming from you, Pinkerton. Or should I say Matth––"

    Clearly Best's tirade needed to be stopped before it gained the notice of more interested ears than Jackson's. Jackson supposed he could have put a hand over Best's mouth, but with the first kiss an aborted failure, he felt obliged to make a second attempt. At least, that's what he would have said, had anybody thought to ask. As it was, Best was the only witness, and too distracted by the act itself to question. 

    Best tasted like cigarettes, but his lips were soft and parted easily under Jackson's tongue. It took him a few moments longer to pull away this time. Jackson savored every one. 

    When they did finally break apart to breathe, there was no time to waste. Jackson didn't want to risk him getting away again. 

    "Let me suck your cock," he said while Best gasped for air.

    "What?" said Best. It would have been a shout, but he was still breathless. Jackson held back a laugh at the look on his face, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

    "Look," said Jackson, "I'm enjoying this, you're enjoying this––" He cupped Best's groin, and found his hunch was right. "––might as well go whole hog, right?" 

    Best stared at him, but didn't wrench himself away.

    "In the bloody street?" he said at last. "I don't know what laws they keep in America, but here––"

    "Here," said Jackson with a lift of his chin, "I'm playing house with Inspector Reid. There ain't a cop in all of Whitechapel who'll cuff me."

    Best's jaw shut with a click, his indignant stream of insults silenced. He squinted at Jackson. Jackson drank in the considering look as the seconds ticked past. Then––

    "Sod it," said Best.

    With that, Jackson found his lapels in Best's fists, and Best's lips on his own.

    The kiss was a clumsy thing, more fury than romance, but passionate nonetheless. It left Jackson panting as he pulled away to suck a bruise onto Best's neck, just under his jaw. Best let out a low moan, then clamped a gloved hand over his mouth to muffle any other sounds Jackson might wring from his throat. Jackson grinned against his skin and went lower. His inebriated state stole some of the finesse from his surgically-trained hands, but he managed to undo the knot of Best's tie and open the top buttons of Best's shirt with minimal damage to the material.

    "Get on with it," Best muttered, then went back to biting his knuckles. 

    Jackson nipped at his collarbone in reply before sinking to his knees in the muck. 

    Frank Goodnight told more truth than he knew when he called Jackson a cocksucker. He'd learned that skill on the docks, from the stevedores he'd teased Drake with, in the interim between his questionable adolescence and his employment with the Pinkertons. He'd honed it every chance he had, up until he met Susan. (And, if he was being honest, a few times after that, too––just to keep in practice, mind. Never knew when it might come in handy.) By this point in his life, he considered himself something of an expert. Jackson didn't see any shame in it. It wasn't much different from going down on a woman. Sure, the parts were different, but the pleasure was the same, and Jackson loved it, loved hearing his partners lose control and feeling them buck into his mouth and the taste of them as they came, regardless of their sex. He loved the looks on their faces as they came back to themselves, flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelids, breath stuttering through parted lips. He loved the way they looked at him afterwards, when their eyes finally focused and shock gave way to gratitude for gratification. He took pride in it, damn it. No room for shame when he was all filled up with satisfaction.

    And Lord, it had been a while since he'd felt that satisfaction.

    Given the chance, Jackson would have taken his time with Best, mouthed at the outline of his cock through his pants, teased him, made the final act all the sweeter for waiting. Out here in a back alley of Whitechapel in the middle of the night, though, he'd have to settle for quick an' dirty. 

    His hands were unsteady as he worked open the fly of Best's trousers. He found familiar territory soon enough, pulling Best's cock out into the night hair, feeling it go from half-hard to hard in his palm. He gave it a gentle tug or two. Then, encouraged by the catch in Best's breath, he firmed up his strokes, pulling the foreskin back over the head and replacing it with his lips.

    Best bucked his hips, thrusting into Jackson's mouth. Jackson slammed his hands down on Best's hipbones, forcing his ass back to the wall of the alley, and pulled off him, shaking his head.

    "None of that, now," he said. "Just sit back, relax, and let me do all the work, y'hear?"

    "You––"

    Whatever eloquent insult Best had planned was lost in his yelp of surprise as Jackson swallowed him back down again. 

    Best shoved a hand into Jackson's hair, knocking his hat aside. It rolled away down the alley and out of Jackson's line of sight. Jackson didn't mind. He had more important concerns at the moment as he hollowed his cheeks and settled in to a steady rhythm. Best whimpered, then sank his teeth into his glove to keep himself quiet. If he wasn't careful he'd tear right through the leather and hit living flesh. Jackson wanted to make him scream loud enough to bring the whole pub running out into the alley. He settled for relishing every needful sound, every near-whine that escaped from behind Best's glove.

    Best's hips jerked in small, frantic motions against Jackson's palms. His hand clenched in Jackson's hair. It wouldn't be long now. 

    "Jackson, I––"

    Jackson hadn't expected a warning, not from Best of all people, and found it quaint that Best thought he needed one. He sucked harder, milking Best's cock with his mouth, pressing his tongue against the slit at the tip. 

    His efforts were rewarded with a rush of seed. He swallowed it down, kept at it until Best's legs stopped shaking and the muffled cries went silent. 

    As Jackson let the softening cock slip out from between his lips, Best's hand in his hair uncurled... and brushed through it, gently. The touch left a tingling static in its wake. It made Jackson's scalp hyper-sensitive, electrified. He didn't want to move, though his knees and neck ached, lest he lose that hard-won tenderness. 

    Then the hand was removed from his head, came down with its fellow to tuck Best's cock back into his trousers. Jackson laughed quietly and braced his palms against the alley wall to stand. Once he was up, he leaned in close, one arm to either side of Best's head. Best, ever the dandy, remained preoccupied with his attire. 

    Jackson smiled at this and went in for a kiss, to distract and discombobulate. Best turned his head. Jackson's lips hit his remaining ear. It didn't faze him. He nibbled at the lobe, pulled back and pressed another kiss to Best's jaw before trying again to meet his mouth. Best pushed him away, not bothering to look him in the eye. Jackson laughed again.

    "After all that, you gonna play shy?" he said.

    "You're not him," said Best. 

    Jackson backed off. All the warmth of liquor and lust was gone. He didn't have the faintest clue who "him" was, but not being "him" stung more than he wanted to admit. So instead of admitting it, he imitated Best's sneer.

    "What a coincidence," he said. "You ain't her."

    For a fraction of a second, Best looked a bit like Jackson felt. Then it was gone, covered by a cold laugh and smothered in a smirk.

    "Thank God for that," said Best.

    Jackson let his arms drop to his sides. The ache in his chest was nothing new. A few more drops of whiskey would numb it. He didn't say a word as Best fixed his shirt and tie, rearranged the brim of his hat, and slipped away.


End file.
